


Page Four-Ninety-One

by gettingaphdinlarry



Series: To Give You a Hand to Hold: Doc and Monster [5]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Best Friends, I promise, Lovers, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Poetry, Traditions, accidental gift giving, even thought it's in first person, this is not a self insert fic, time stamp, typecast fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:09:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingaphdinlarry/pseuds/gettingaphdinlarry
Summary: It's Louis Tomlinson's first day working as a teacher, and Harry unwittingly gives him a gift while trying to honor a tradition.





	Page Four-Ninety-One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myownspark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/gifts).



> I'm playing with showing temporal relations on a typewriter. When the two POVs are on the same line, that means it's happening concurrently. Downloading a PDF should retain images; if you download this and the images are stripped, please read it online.

_The crunching gravel is a jolt,_

The cat jumps off the couch arm,/ _a sudden reminder of_

where he was/ _years earlier,_

lazing in the late-evening sun./ _when you left my shirt wet._

A long shadow arcs over the grey/ _I knew I was in trouble that night._

and white stones./ _Or maybe that was the night_

_ I knew _

_ I was going to escape trouble, _  


“He’s home, Jack,/ _because of_

Lou’s home! Wonder how his day was!”/ _that damp shoulder._

I swing the door open,

“How was your first day?”

I’m swept up

in your arms, my toes skimming

the tile entryway, catching on/ _I spin you around, your_

my own shoes, which roll/ _legs swinging._

and bounce across the floor./ _“Missed you, ahh,_

We never put the shoes away, we’re/ _can’t wait to tell you!”_

terrible./ _I bury my face into the flat plane_

_ of your chest and inhale deeply. _

_ You wriggle and shimmy down my body _

_ and push your hands _

“Dinner! And tell me about your day!”/ _against my shoulders._

Fingers tangled in your

belt loops, and then

a tug. “Follow me!

Pork’s got only a few minutes and

then something special

for dessert.”

“Something special?”

_ Jack winds his way between your feet, _

_ watching you. _

_ You’re his favorite. _

“A surprise, I’ll need your help./ _And my favorite, too._

Later.”/ _Stumbling over myself, bumping_

_ into your body-- _

_ “Harry, God, it smells so good.” _

_ Closed eyes, embraced in the _

_ heat of the kitchen.  _

_ Starch-sweet corn on the cob, _

_ herb-roasted potatoes. _

_ A lifted lid, a blast of steam, _

Leaning against the counter, blocking/ _ The fat and crisp, bright green _

your view./ _string beans._

Sugar,

flour,

shortening, eggs./ _“Want me to take out the corn?”_

My little secret./ _I don’t even wait,_

_ just take the oven mitts and grab _

_ them, hot in their husks, green gone _

_ yellow and _

_ dry in the heat of the oven, the tips _

A stab from a knife, and/ _browned and burnt._

the pork releases its juices,/ _The silk will slip right off, I know._

which spread across the plates, piled

high and

passed to you.

“So, tell me! Tell me!”

Pouring some mint iced tea

for the both of us./ ___ Carrying the dishes to the table, _

_ the weight heavy on my wrists. _

_ “My own class, Harry, my own room.” _

“Was it everything you thought

it would be? Was Sarah right?”

_ “She visited me _

_ at the end of the day--I’m so glad _

_ I got hired there, she can _

_ still help me. Made me promise _

_ to not stay longer than an hour a day _

_ this week.” _

“Best mentor, ever.”

The milky corn kernel explodes

between my

teeth,

butter and salt coating my tongue./ _Spearing a potato wedge,_

“God, this is good.”/ _I glance out the window, squinting._

_ The sunlight sparkles through the _

_ lowest branches of the trees, _

_ the leaves will be red and gold _

_ too soon, _

_ the cornfields are flattened _

_ In the distance. _

_ “I had almost no time to _

_ go to the bathroom, _

_ my lunch was too short, _

_ there’s so much to do, but--” _

“Your own students. Your kids.”

_ “My kids.” _

We eat mostly in silence, smiles and

sighs filling the space.

You’re stifling yawns, your

eyes tired, and shining.

We load up the dishwasher,

and I push you toward the bedroom.

“Take a nap, you’re tired.”

_ “If I nap now, I won’t _

_ be able to sleep later,” I argue, _

_ but it’s halfhearted. _

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

_ “Too nervous, first day.” _

“I’ll wake you up in forty minutes.”

_ “You needed help for the surprise.” _

“Forty minutes.”/ _ I nod, _

_ my cheek pressed into your pillow, _

_ your wheat shampoo and Ivory soap, _

_ and the down comforter _

_ around my shoulders. _

_ Eyes drooping. _

When Jack and I check later,

he meows a ‘no’ I think, because

you’re too peaceful,

curled up in a ball,

fists tucked under your chin

and lashes fluttering as

you mutter about

nothing.

Or maybe everything.

Who can tell?

“Shh, Jack, let’s start without him.”

_ Whir, whir, whir. _

_ I roll over and glare at the clock, _

_ “Damn! An hour!” _

_ Stumbling into the kitchen to _

_ find you _

_ at the bright red _

“Shit! Did I wake you?”/ _ KitchenAid. “Harry, _

Pushing hair out of the way./ _ said you’d wake me.” _

_ You have a swipe of flour _

_ across your forehead _

_ and  _

_ I think _

“You were sleeping so well,/ _ I may love you. _

but can you help?”/ _ I do. _

_ “What are you making?” _

Wash my hands,

wipe them dry on the towel

that hangs/ _Uff da,_

on the refrigerator door handle./ _the towel you touch says._

_ You bought it at your _

_ first State Fair. _

_ Ridiculous. _

The recipe card is covered in

thick plastic,

your mom would kill me otherwise.

“I’m trying to make this.”

I hand it over and wait./ _“What’s this?”_

_ A card, in simple cursive, penciled _

_ in, a list: _

_ 1 C shortening _

_ 1 1/2 C sugar _

_ 2 eggs _

_ 2 3/4 C flour _

_ 2 t cream of tartar _

_ 1 t soda _

_ 1/4 t salt _

_ 2 T sugar _

_ 1 t cinnamon _

_ and then _

_ p. 491 _

_ "What’s page four-ninety-one?” _

“Turn it over.”

_ Girlish handwriting, _

_ this time in blue ink. _

_ 400 F, cream sugar and shortening--no _

_ butter!--add eggs. _

Confusion covers your face./ _ Mix dry in another bowl. _

_ Combine. _

_ Make cinnamon-sugar. _

“Your mom, and your great-grandma.”/ _ 1” balls, 2” apart. _

I smile and wait./ _ 8-10 minutes. _

_ “Wait, my mom? And her grandma?” _

“You’ve never seen this?”

_ The sugar and shortening _

_ creamed to a golden hue, two eggs _

_ cracked in the well, shells _

_ in the sink. _

_ “It’s _

“It’s the snickerdoodles,/ _ the snickerdoodle recipe.” _

for your first day of school.”

_ The red cap on the cream of tartar is _

_ flipped open, the blue box of salt, _

_ an empty bowl waiting. _

“I asked your mom.”

I shrug and/ _“You got the original?”_

shove my sleeves up, the room warm.

“She told me Grandma--her grandma,

I mean--got it from some book. 

When she was a kid, she

asked the directions,

and your great-grandma

made her write them

down.”/ _“It’s my first day of school._

Hands spread out, toward/ _Oh my God, you...”_

the cookie sheets

and the bags of flour and sugar

open to the air./ _I wash my hands in the sink,_

“Can you help?”/ _aching for the scent of cinnamon,_

_ the taste of sugar _

_ crackling on the cookie. _

_ “What have you done?” _

“I’m still mixing in the eggs--”

_ “So the dry goes together.” _

_ Spoonfuls of flour fall into _

_ the plastic cup, _

_ dumped into the large orange bowl _

T he beater scrapes against the metal,/ _ left behind _

orange threads of yolk/ _ when the family moved to Florida. _

breaking and spreading

through the sugar

and fat.

“I have that fancy cinnamon,

I hope it works.”/ _“Your cinnamon is always fancy.”_

I peek at you, the auburn

of your hair

under the kitchen light,

the sun having sunk

too quickly outside.

These long summer days turned short

too soon.

And now the Fair is over,

and school’s started,

and it’s only a few more weeks until

the first flurry of snow.

You catch me and grin./ _“You OK? How was school? Only a_

_few more months, really, Doc.”_

“I know, can’t wait. Was worth it

to take all those summer classes,

finish my BA early.”

_ “You work too hard.” _

“This isn’t the hard work.”

You freeze and I touch

the small of your back.

Whisper.

_ “You know what I mean, Monster.” _

_ “It’s a different sort of hard.” _

_ I lean into your touch, _

_ the heat of your hand. _

_ “Ready.” _

I hold out my bowl,

you tip yours,

the flour, cream of tartar--

“What’s ‘tartar’ anyhow?”

\--soda and salt rising in a cloud./ _“No idea, I always wondered._

_ Want me to mix it?” _

_ You hand the bowl over and start _

_ mixing the cinnamon and sugar _

“Twice as much, Lou?”/ _ together, on a small plate. _

_ “Always.” _

The plate is smooth and the sugar

gritty, and when it’s

a shimmering brown,

it’s ready./ _A swipe through the dough,_

“Here,” I hand you a spoon,/ _the perfect size,_

drop a cookie sheet between us/ _peeled off and_

with a clatter./ _rolled,_

_ smooth _

_ and round, _

I watch you and copy,/ _ between my palms. _

my hands turning slick

and greasy./ _ Circles rolled over the plate, _

_ dough plunked on the sheet. _

_ When I was a kid, _

_ this was all I could do, _

_ barely able to look over the counter _

You work faster than I do,/ _ at Mom’s hip. _

each cookie the same size,

I’m not so consistent

I fear./ _“Looks perfect.”_

_ The first pan goes in and we work _

_ on the others, _

_ until there’s only a _

_ pinch of dough _

_ left. _

_ “If we eat this, will we get sick?” _

“Probably not, that’s mostly a myth.”

I scrape the dough out,

giving you half.

Rolled in the sugar mixture, which is

almost entirely gone./ _“See? Always need twice_

The dough is raw, sweet/ _what they call for.”_

and smooth

and heavy in my stomach.

_ Beep beep beep! _

_ Mitts on, _

_ oven open, _

_ still chewing on the dough. _

_ Puffed up cookies _

“How are they?”/ _ with a crunchy crust. _

“ Plates and mugs, and cold milk./ _ They’re _

One hot pan cooling near the sink,/ _ perfect.” _

new trays in the oven.

_ Sitting down with warm cookies, _

_ next to you, _

_ and a cat who won’t stop meowing. _

_ The snickerdoodle crackles and _

_ the cat is distracted _

_ with a shallow bowl of milk. _

_ And you? _

“You’re looking at me funny.

What’s wrong?”

_ “You gave me a present.” _

“What are you talking about? It’s

just a cookie.”/ _I break the snickerdoodle in half,_

_ dip part of it in milk. _

_ “No, you did. I didn’t even know, _

_ there was an original recipe. _

_ A physical copy.” _

The sugar has melted to

a fine coating,

thin and delicate./ _ “C’mere.” _

_ Leaning forward, my hand _

_ on your thigh, _

_ I press my lips against yours _

_ and you taste like _

_ Cinnamon heat and _

The sugar crumbles on my lips./ _the texture of sugar,_

Cinnamon tingles on your tongue,/ _a flash in my mind._

slid between my teeth./ _Of that day we canoed._

_ The sand rubbing against the hull. _

_ “You taste sweet.” _

“We’ve got more in the oven.”

I kiss your jaw and sigh. “Let’s

clean up, so we can let the cookies

Cool, relax when they’re done.”

_ A flurry of cleaning, and washing _

_ and tucking the recipe away between _

_ the pages of the GOOD HOUSEKEEPING _

_ COOKBOOK I stole when we  _

_ visited Florida for Christmas. _

“This was a gift?”

_ “A gift.” _

“Wish I’d known that years ago.”

The last sheet out,

oven off.

I lean against the counter and you/ _Pressed together flush,_

lean against me./ _from knee to sternum._

_ Hands wrapped around your waist, _

_ your hands around my own, _

_ fingers loosely entwined. _

_ You taste like _

_ cookies _

You taste like/ _and family._

sugar,

shortening,

cinnamon,/ ___You are_

milk./ _solid_

You’re/ _and safe_

like home./ _like home._

 

**Author's Note:**

> For [MyOwnSparkNow](http://myownsparknow.tumblr.com/), because of everything. Happy birthday, my dear friend.
> 
> Many thanks to [twopoppies](http://twopoppies.tumblr.com/) for betaing this and creating the collage for the rebloggable post. Thank you [curlyharru](http://curlyharru.tumblr.com/) for letting me use one of your manips for the art post. Many thanks to [awriterwrites](http://a-writerwrites.tumblr.com/) and [louandhazaf](http://louandhazaf.tumblr.com/) for betaing this. Thank you, thank you!
> 
> This is a stand alone fic, but it is also a companion piece to _To Give You a Hand to Hold_ , and the canoe trip referenced is from _A Late Summer Day._
> 
> Typecast blogging is an unusual form of blogging where people blog with typewriters. I found a typewriter better suited than HTML to give me the look and feel I wanted for this, especially with the alternating at-the-same-time POV. Having said that, I have included the fic-poem in an HTML form as well for readability and accessibility reasons.
> 
> And look! [A rebloggable art post](http://gettingaphdinlarry.tumblr.com/post/150420429871/page-four-ninety-one-1796-words)!


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